Nightmares
by Aelfay Sparrow
Summary: John faces his PTSD while a killer chooses victims apparently at random. I suck at summaries. Fem!Lock, Male!John
1. It's a Harry Situation

**It's a Harry Situation**

**Hello! I am so glad you made it here! This is my attempt at a case out of my own head. There is quite a bit of character development that goes on in this story, so if you skip it, you may get a bit confused, however, it shouldn't interrupt the flow of the cases according to the show much should you choose to wait until I start on The Great Game. Up to you!**

**The prequel to this story is _A Small Change, _which covers the _A Study In Pink_ and _The Blind Banker_, so if you wish to start from the beginning, that's a good place!  
**

**In the meantime, please enjoy, and remember reviews are my favourite!**

* * *

John spent the next two days avoiding Sherlock. Not on purpose, he told himself; Sherlock had disappeared to her bedroom before John got home from his talk with Mycroft, with a note on the coffee table instructing John to not touch any of the petri dishes in her kitchen and not to wake her on pain of death. Frankly, he could believe that wasn't just an idle threat.

John was fine with that, considering - well. What did he have to say? Because, frankly, he didn't have a fucking clue.

Besides, life was catching up with him. Sherlock's disappearance was well timed, because the clinic needed him for both days, and he had sixteen voicemails from his sister on his phone.

The third day, she called and he answered before checking the name. "Hello?" _Oops_.

"John! Hiiii. Look, I'm round Barts today and I was wondering if you'd meet me?"

"What makes you think I'm near Barts?" John hedged, wishing desperately he was busy, and that he could lie effectively to Harry. Harry had grown up with him, though, and he knew she'd never fall for it. He'd lied one too many times about stealing her candy as a kid. She knew all his tells.

"Of course you're near Barts, it's the only place you know people!" Harry giggled on the other side of the phone. "So are you meeting me or not?"

John sighed. "You know the little cafe I used to go to during finals?" He fiddled with the edge of his sleeve, trying to ignore his hand's tremour.

"The one with the funny name and the good cinnamon buns?"

"Speedy's isn't a funny name, it's just the name of the owner. And yeah, that one."

"Who names their kid Speedy? Totally weird. Kay I'll meet you there! Fifteen minutes?"

John looked at the clock. "Yeah, that'll work."

"BRILLIANT! I will see you soon, Johnny boy."

Hanging up, John looked round for his jacket, internally bracing himself. Harriet went up and down - ever since Mum had died, John never knew if she was going to show up drunk or show up, well, just fine. And that was the most annoying bit about it, probably; that she could throw off the addiction when she wanted to, and be nearly completely normal (as normal as Harry could get, which was still pretty weird, if you asked John). But she wouldn't. It was like thinking of Sherlock on drugs. Why did people insist on ruining their perfectly good brains for no reason?

John rolled his eyes at no one, caught himself, and wondered if this is what Sherlock felt like when she had to deal with Anderson.

The walk to Speedy's was brisk, but nice. It wasn't windy, but everyone John passed had red noses, and the air was crisp. The clouds that always seemed to cover London were keeping to their regular schedule. John let himself enjoy it, understanding that his peace was about to be interrupted and that he couldn't possibly expect Sherlock to behave for much longer either.

Also, it was lovely to walk, just walk, with both legs working properly. John hadn't been on a walk in ages, hating the way his cane made him look like an invalid.

So when he reached Speedy's he was in a good mood. Which Harry enthusiastically mirrored the moment she saw him.

"Johnny!" A figure at one of Speedy's outdoor tables got up and practically launched itself across the sidewalk, stumbling just before it rammed into him. When it stopped, it was easily identified as a brash, red-haired woman, who grinned at him easily. "Hi."

"Ah, right. Hi," John said, grinning back despite himself. He and Harry didn't get along - he knew that within the half-hour they would be angry at each other - but they loved each other, and every so often he remembered it.

"I," Harry announced, "brought you a present." She bounced on her toes and brought her hands out from behind her back, holding a small package.

Groaning internally, John let her press a gift into his hands. "Present" was Harry's code word for "Please take this, it is an emotional time bomb, but if you get rid of it I will murder you." Which explained half the stuff he'd left in storage when he'd joined the army. At least if he got rid of it now, he knew someone would figure out who killed him.

"Thanks," he murmured, then sneezed. "Sorry."

"It's too cold out here, I've been waiting for you, open that inside," Harry ordered, and John remembered one of the reasons why they didn't get along as kids - she was bossy. Still, it was cold, and John let himself be bundled into the warm cafe while Harry ordered him a coffee with everything he hated in it, because that was how she thought he'd liked it as a child. He sat and set the present on the counter, waiting for her to bring it over.

"So, how have you been?" she asked as she sat down across from him and handed him the coffee.

"Good," John replied, suprised by the truth of it. "I've been... good."

"What have you been doing? Not calling your sister, obviously."

"I, ah, well, I got a job," John offered, taking a sip of the coffee as he tried to rearrange his brain, deciding what he wanted to tell Harry and what he didn't. He tried to keep himself from making a face at the taste - she'd put creamer in it instead of milk, the horrible syrupy stuff that was meant to taste like hazelnuts. John gulped to get it off his toungue, hoping his tastebuds weren't too traumatized.

"Where is it?"

"Tiny clinic down the road," John replied, waving in the general direction. He didn't want Harry getting it into her head to 'surprise' her at work. She'd done that before, and his boss had never forgiven him.

"Good! That's good. Isn't it?" Harry replied, and John smiled, setting down his cup and turning it on the counter with a finger. Harry was trying so hard to be supportive; he wondered if it was physically exhausting. Still, he appreciated the effort.

"Yeah, I guess it is," he replied. "Nice boss and everything."

"Oh! Speaking of which, you have to open your present," Harry said. John couldn't understand the logic, but she pushed the present across to him and he took it anyway.

The gift was simply wrapped, and it only took him a moment before he was staring at a small window box, the type used for displays.

"It's for your dog tags. And your bullet, if they gave it to you. I didn't know if the whole bit about them giving it to you on a chain was real or not, but I got two hooks put in it anyway, just in case, and if they didn't give it to you, you can use it for the bullet, was what I thought, anyway -" Harry broke off, twisting her napkin and blushing.

John was honestly stunned. Harry _never_ gave him gifts; not ones originally meant for him, anyway. He turned the box in his hands. "They didn't give me the bullet," he blurted without thinking.

"Oh," Harry said, her eyes falling to where the napkin was starting to come apart.

"But," John said, realizing he'd said the wrong thing, "I can put the dog tags in it. It can go on my wall."

Heaven knew his wall needed something on it; it was completely bare.

"Really?" Harry looked up, and he felt the tips of his ears warm. "I knew you'd like it," she proclaimed, confidence restored, and took a sip of her coffee.

"Really," John confirmed, and set the box down carefully, turning his cup with two fingers again. "How are you?" he finally said after a moment, and Harry grinned at him, flashing a peace sign.

"I, my dear brother, am brilliant, and am now the head of my department, thanks much for asking!"

Ah. A promotion. The new reason for sobriety. John leaned back, wondering how long it would take for Harry to get bored and start drinking again.

"...And my boss is brilliant, she's the one who noticed the window box. It was in Mr. Browning's bedroom, and his dad's ex-military, you know, so it had a flag in it, and she said, 'Your brother just got back, didn't he?' and I said, 'Yeah,' and she said, 'What about something like that?' and I thought it was brilliant, but yours wouldn't be a flag, of course, Johnny, 'cause you're not dead, and so I got this one, and -"

John let Harry ramble on, knowing how things stood very quickly. A crush on the boss, and thus, buying the suggested present. Silly, of course, for him to think Harry would buy something simply for him. Maybe he could keep the box in his closet and pull it out if she came over.

"...And I've taken up swimming! Samantha got me into it, and I've got half-off at her pool. I go Wednesdays and Fridays, which works perfectly for me, and - oh." Harry stopped and blushed. "Sorry. This was supposed to be brother-sister time, right? What are you doing? You can't spend all your time at work."

"Um," John evaded, "I drink tea?"

Harry blinked at him. "John, you've got to get yourself a hobby. Or a boyfriend. Or possibly both, if you can handle it."

John shook his head. "I can't handle it, then," he said, remembering how well _that_ had worked out. Hell, he'd lost his boyfriend two days ago. To his hobby. Or flatmate. And it hadn't really been his boyfriend.

He turned his cup. Bloody hell, his life was complicated.

"Have you got _any_ friends?" Harry demanded, and John looked at her.

"Ah - there's Simon, that's my boss - and Mrs. Hudson - that's my landlady - sort of - ah. And there's my neighbor. Flatmate, sort of." John looked down again, tracing a crack in the table.

"John." Harry's voice was firm. "You know three people. That does not count as a healthy social life." She gave him that dangerous look, the one she'd given him before trying to squeeze him into skinny jeans and drag him to a gay club.

"Right, well," John gestured at himself. "I'm a washed-up ex-soldier with a shot shoulder. I'm hardly society's type." Hopefully that would put her off.

Rolling her eyes, Harry gave him a firm look. "What about your old mates? Mike Stamford still works at Bart's, you know. Saw him when Katie had to go in because she'd dropped a toaster oven on her toe."

John didn't really want to know the whole story, and didn't ask. "Mike was nice," he nodded, "But we don't really run in the same circles much."

"Well, call him!" Harry insisted. "You don't get to know people by sitting at home with your tea."

John smiled in a vague way and took another sip of his coffee before he remembered it was horrid. Mike had been nice - a round-faced, genial sort of friend who was always ready for whatever you wanted to do.

Exactly what he didn't want right now.

He blinked. When had he gotten so used to Sherlock dragging him round on cases that he didn't want to do anything else? He'd only had two cases so far, it wasn't like she'd said this was going to be a constant thing. He was in trouble if he was beginning to count on it as 'normal'.

Which was too bad, because he liked that sort of 'normal'. It was a good sort of normal. Not for anyone else, of course, but for them.

"Right. Well, that settles it. Next time I see you, you have to have a hobby or a boyfriend. Or I'm going to take you swimming."

John shuddered inwardly, gripping his coffee cup. He was _not_ going swimming. Especially not with his little sister.

* * *

When he got home, John took off his coat and turned on the kettle, then stopped once he realized what he was doing and turned around to lean back on the counter, his head dropping back to thunk against one of the cabinets.

Tea really was his hobby, wasn't it?

He turned back around and made the tea, deliberately, telling himself he deserved it to get the aftertaste of the still-awful coffee out of his mouth.

And then, once he'd drunk it, he realized he had nothing to do.

He swore inwardly, setting his mug in the sink with a bit of extra force. He'd been fine until Harry had to mention it. Well, he'd been fine until Sherlock had decided to disappear. He wondered if this happened often, and remembered her comments when she'd unlocked his side of the flat. How long had she slept that time? Three days? Shit.

Well, today was the third day. He looked at the clock. Half four. He looked at the tea he'd just drunk. Non-caffeinated.

Early bedtimes were fine, right? Or naps? Naps were good. He'd take a nap. Naps were a totally sensible way to pass the time. He'd just make naps a hobby. Right. Yes. Good.

* * *

_Ugh. Smells like beer going off. Or moldy bread. Or-_ John blinked himself awake, the smell growing stronger as he grew more coherent. He rubbed his eyes and started to yawn, only to begin coughing halfway through.

And then he noticed the door that connected his bedroom to Sherlock's kitchen was open. _Why...?_

He got up, trying to breathe as little as possible, and stomped into the sitting room, not caring if his hair was still awry. Sherlock was sitting on his sofa, painting her toenails. She looked up at him, unperturbed.

"Morning, sleepyhead. Don't go into my kitchen, I'm trying to ventilate my experiment."

John blinked at her, once, twice, trying to decide if he wanted to kick her out or hug her for finally waking up. He settled for going in to start the kettle for a cuppa. _Back to normal, then._


	2. Hobby Searching

**So I have won NaNoWriMo, and am super excited about it, and so here we go with a nice, nearly 3,000 word chapter for y'all as celebration. Whoo!**

**Writing 50,000 words makes one realize that it would feel impossibly futile if it were not for those who actually read one's work, so I'd also just like to thank you, dear readers, so very much. **

**Comments and all are my favourite!**

* * *

The next day, John called Mike Stamford.

He'd finally given up trying to come up with anything else to do on his own; Sherlock was absorbed in her horrible-smelling experiment and hadn't showered since she awoke, which meant she was starting to smell bad herself. So John called Mike.

After two rings, he realized this was going to be awkward, and after three, he was certain this was a bad idea, but then Mike picked up.

"Hello?"

"Ah. Hello. Um. It's John Watson? We went to Bart's together."

"John! Hi! It's been ages! How've you been?" Mike's voice hadn't changed much. John could picture him smiling on the other end of the phone.

"Good, I've been good. Well. I've been well. Um. Harry just suggested - since I'm back - I should, um. Well. Call." _Smooth, Watson, you are definitely gifted with social grace._

"Yeah! Yeah, it's good to hear from you! We'll have to catch up, I didn't even know you were back. There's a group of us going to the pub tonight, you know. Pub quiz night. We've only got three on the team, and it goes up to six, if you want to join."

"What time is it?" John asked. "I probably won't be much help, I'm hardly up-to-date on pop culture these days." Unless you counted the James Bond films, in which case he knew pretty much every line. There hadn't been much to do in hospital, and Daniel Craig was a wonder.

"No problem, we're all like that, except Julia. She gets all the celebrities and I get all the anatomy questions. It's at half six, at Distiller's."

He was about to refuse, really he was, but then the picture of going to the pool with Harry came into his head - his sister in a swimsuit - and John clenched the phone a bit tighter. "Sure, I'll be there."

"Great! Sounds brilliant. Sorry to cut this short - I mean, I'd love to chat, but you caught me on my lunch break and it's about to end."

"It's fine, it's all fine," John replied easily. "See you tonight, then."

"Right. Bye, John. It was good to hear from you!"

* * *

Pubs were good. John liked pubs. A nice pint would be perfect to end his day. John made himself another cup of tea, making two automatically and bringing one into Sherlock's kitchen to set next to her. She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes, hands paused in the middle of adding liquid to a petri dish.

"You've made plans," she said without preamble.

"How do you - never mind," John sighed, then nodded. "Yeah, I'm going to the pub tonight. It's pub quiz night, an old friend invited me." He shifted awkwardly, going to lean on the counter but realizing it was covered in unknown substances, and thinking better of it.

Sherlock just kept looking at him as if he was lying, then tilted her head. "You're not excited about it."

John shifted his weight onto the other foot. "Not really," he admitted. "I'm not very good at the socializing bit. And I'll not be much good at the pub quiz bit either - Mike's a doctor too, it's not like I can just take care of any medical questions and sit out on the rest. Though," he realized, "you aren't to tell Mike that. Or anybody. Why am I telling you?" He shook his head.

Nodding to herself, Sherlock turned back to her experiment. "Can I come?"

Almost dropping his mug, John gaped at her. "You want to?"

"Of course, John," she said, rolling her eyes. "I wouldn't have asked otherwise."

"Yes, but - you at a pub quiz?" John couldn't imagine Sherlock anywhere that might be considered social. When Sherlock was surrounded by other human beings, she was in a morgue. And the other human beings were dead.

"Sure. Call Molly, she'll enjoy it too." Yet another person who enjoyed being surrounded by dead people. The social skills in this group were going to be amazing.

"Right, sure." John started to walk out of the kitchen, then turned back at the door. "Have you got her number?"

"It's in my mobile," Sherlock said, moving to another petri dish carefully.

"Where's that?"

"Jacket."

John looked at her. She was wearing her jacket.

"You're wearing it, Sherlock."

"Busy," Sherlock said, leaning over the counter and using the pipette to add another liquid to a different group of petri dishes that seemed to be growing some sort of - mold? Fungus? Bacteria? "Grab it yourself."

John raised an eyebrow, then walked forward and reached into her jacket pocket, deliberately keeping his hand from touching her as much as he could in that position. He retrieved the mobile and tapped it, bringing up the lock screen.

"Lock screen," he said shortly.

"The first four-digit number in a 1-based Fibonacci sequence," said Sherlock quickly. John was silent until she looked at his blank face and supplied, "1597."

"Right," John nodded, hitting the buttons and finding Sherlock's address book. About ten minutes later he'd managed to program Molly into his own address book, and wanted to throw both phones at the wall. Stupid electronics. Phones used to be good for calling people.

Finally he hit the 'call' button, after walking into Sherlock's sitting room, which still held the charred remains of a sofa. He paced next to it as he listened to the phone ring.

"Hello?"

"Ah, hello! This is John, John Watson."

"Oh! Hi!" Molly sounded nervous, but then she normally sounded nervous, so John wasn't sure if it was his fault or not. He swallowed.

"Sherlock and I are going to a pub quiz tonight, half seven at the Distiller's - wondered if you'd like to come."

"R-really? Because I'm certain you could find someone better for quizzes - I'm not very good with them..." Molly tried to hedge out of it, but John could hear the excitement in her voice, and suddenly realized he wanted her to come, because she was nice, and possibly had never been invited to a pub quiz before, due to, you know, hanging out with dead people.

"No, you'll be fine. You can't be worse than me at naming movie stars. You're free, then?" he asked, and heard her shuffle on the other side of the line.

"Yeah! Ah, yeah, I can make it. It sounds... fun."

"Brilliant. I'll, um, see you then."

"Okay, bye!" Molly hung up quickly, and John was left holding the phone, which was now blaring a dial tone at him.

He was going to the pub with Sherlock Holmes.

Bollocks.

* * *

John insisted on walking to the pub - it wasn't that far away, and it was just barely still light out, and he didn't have the money to pay for a cab. Sherlock said she'd pay, but John felt her money was a sort of black cat - where it went, bad dates followed.

Not that this was a date, but then what had happened with Simon didn't count as a proper date either, and look at the results.

So seven o'clock found him walking down the sidewalk with Sherlock, who was wearing her long coat with the collar pulled up to show off her cheekbones, and whose scarf somehow made her neck look long instead of short, and John was feeling underdressed, which was ridiculous, because he was going to the pub. You couldn't underdress at the pub. Right? Plaid and jeans were totally acceptable pub attire.

"What are you experimenting on?" he asked after a couple minutes of Sherlock grumbling under her breath about stubborn doctors who wouldn't take cabs.

"Yeast," she answered after a moment. "I'm trying to find the proper ratio of sugar, flour, water, and salt to produce the maximum amount of carbon dioxide."

John raised an eyebrow. "You're experimenting on how to make bread rise?"

"Efficiently," Sherlock huffed. "It takes far too long with current methods."

"What made you decide to try experimenting on it?" John asked, genuinely interested. He hadn't thought Sherlock's experiments could be of practical use aside from providing evidence to capture killers.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, looking over at him with an appreciative expression. "Her pastries are delicious, but time-extensive."

"And you wish she could make them faster," John grinned. "Brilliant."

Sherlock frowned. "You're making fun of me."

John shook his head. "Not really. I actually do think it's brilliant, and if I get pastries out of it, all the better. It's just - well, you're the only person I know who would tackle the problem of slow cooking scientifically."

"Slow baking," Sherlock corrected him with a sniff, but her expression had a hesitant sort of pride about it, and John chuckled, letting his hands relax as he walked next to her.

"...so, why did you burn your sofa?"

Sherlock sniffed again, pulled up her scarf, and didn't answer.

* * *

Distiller's was nice; a bit nicer than the hole-in-the-wall pubs John was used to, but still. Nice. Mike waved them over to a table with a smile.

"Ah, hi, Mike, yes," he said, shifting his weight as he realized he hadn't asked before bringing a guest. "Um, this is Sherlock Holmes, my flatmate. Asked to come along. And I invited a friend, if you don't mind - you might know her, actually. Molly Hooper, from Barts?"

Mike blinked as they shook hands. "From the morgue? The little one? Yeah, I know her." He smiled again. John remembered another reason why he and Mike were friends; Mike genuinely seemed to like everyone. "Know Sherlock, too, as a matter of fact. What was it, a riding crop last I saw you?" His eyes twinkled at the comment.

Sherlock shook hands quickly. "I think so." She turned to John, who realized he was wearing his confusion on his face. "I was testing how bruises could be produced after death."

John nodded, then rubbed his forehead with one hand. "And that's who I live with, everyone. Moving along."

Mike chuckled, then looked past John. "Oh, there's Hooper. Molly!" He waved, and John could have sworn Molly blushed as she hurried over with a hesitant smile.

"Hello, John. Thanks, for inviting me... I didn't know you would be here, Mike!" She smiled with a nervous air.

"Yeah, well I invited John. We went to Bart's together, as little lads. Well, I was littler, John was about the same."

"Ah," John shifted his weight and grinned. "Yes, I'm short, I get it. Hardly my fault some people are absurdly tall." He gave Sherlock a fake scowl, and she grinned brightly in return, which was... rather frightening, John decided.

"Right, then. They're going to start handing out the quizzes soon, you gonna get anything?" Mike asked, gesturing kindly to a seat for Molly. She slid into it, still looking nervous, but happy.

"Right, yeah. You want anything, Sherlock?" John asked. She shook her head. "Molly?" John turned to her.

"Um, gin and tonic?"

"Got it," John said, making his way to the bar. He cam back with the drinks and set Molly's in front of her.

"Oh, how much?" she asked, pulling up her purse, and John shook his head.

"Don't worry about it." Molly was the only person who would let Sherlock into the morgue, she deserved it.

"I paid your entrance fee for the quiz," Sherlock said quickly. John blinked at her and reached for his wallet, but she rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. It was a pound. Don't bother."

"Right, great," John sat down. "Cheers," he raised his beer, and Molly giggled. She looked more relaxed, sitting next to Mike; John wondered...

"Here's your quiz, you know the rules," a man said, coming by the table with two papers and a pencil. "First round. Good luck!" He winked at Molly, who flushed, and headed to the next table.

"Want me to read them off?" a man near the end of the table asked.

"Sure," John said, passing the question paper down the way. "John Watson, seeing as we haven't been introduced."

"Cris, nice to meet you," the man said with a grin, taking the paper and skimming it. "Alright, first question: What is the name of the American National Anthem?"

Mike groaned. "What does their anthem sound like?"

"Oh say can you see..." another lady at the end of the table sung, and Mike sighed.

"Is that the name, then?"

"_The Star-Spangled Banner_," Sherlock said simply.

John looked at her. "Really?"

She shrugged. "Serial killer in '06. Kept writing lyrics on the scene of the crime. Ended up being American; fanatic about the Revolutionary War. Was killing men with the same names as British soldiers."

John raised his eyebrows. "Huh." He turned his attention back to the table to see Mike's two friends staring at them. "Oh. Sorry. Sherlock's a detective."

"Oh," the woman breathed. "Right." She pulled over the answer paper and jotted down "_The Star-Spangled Banner_".

"Consulting detective," Sherlock breathed next to him.

"Next question?" Mike asked awkwardly, and Cris nodded quickly.

"Ah, capital city of Afghanistan."

"Kabul," John said quickly. Cris looked at him in surprise and he shifted in his seat. "Stationed near there for a couple months," he said in explanation.

John still didn't know the name of the woman sitting next to him, but she wrote down "Cabul." "With a 'K'," he said, smiling to take out any sting, and she nodded, putting a line next to the 'C' so it turned into a rather awkward-looking 'K'.

Sherlock snorted next to him. John elbowed her in the ribs.

The evening passed slowly. Molly turned out to be surprisingly handy with recognizing celebrities from their photos, and John found he was moderately useful when geography questions came up. Things weren't terrible. Still, John found himself wishing he were at home, not trying to make awkward conversation with two strangers - the woman's name turned out to be Julia.

They were on the last round - "general knowledge," and Cris read out clearly, "What is the technical term for the earth going round the sun?"

"Something centricism," Molly said musingly.

"It does?" Sherlock said, looking interested. The whole table turned to look at her.

"Does what?" John asked, confused. John had spent the evening being Sherlock's translator; she knew a lot of the answers, but the reasons ("...they thought it was some sort of low-dosage long-term poisoning, but really his wife had just insured he got scurvy by feeding him little to no ascorbic acid - vitamin C, John. It was fascinating." "Yes, Sherlock, very interesting. Just write down 'vitamin C', Julia.") often seemed to disturb the others.

"It goes round the sun?"

John looked at her blankly. "Yes, of course it does."

"Huh." Sherlock seemed to think about this for a moment, then looked at him. "Must have forgot it."

"You forgot primary school science?" Mike asked, his smile growing wider. John had discovered over the course of the evening that Mike found Sherlock to be a source of perpetual amusement, choosing to find humour where others took offense, or got confused.

"Well, I probably did it on purpose," Sherlock said, as if that made it perfectly normal.

"Right," John said, rolling his eyes. "I take it you don't know the answer, then?"

"You think the end is 'centrism'?" Sherlock asked Molly. Molly nodded. "Probably helio-centrism, then."

"How do you know that, but not that the earth goes round the sun?" Cris asked in confusion.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's Latin. Helios - sun - centrism - center. Simple enough."

"You know Latin but not your primary science," Julia marvelled.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, getting impatient and making a quick gesture with her arms. "Can we move on?"

"Right. Who won the football World Cup in 1998?"

Sherlock sat back, folding her arms and looking cross, and John exchanged glances with Molly, who looked concerned, and the night continued.

* * *

"Well, that was dull," Sherlock remarked as they walked home.

John sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, I tried," he attempted to console himself.

Sherlock gave him a keen glance. "Tried what, exactly?"

Pursing his lips, John looked at her, then realized she'd figure it out soon enough anyway. "My sister's torturing me."

"Your sister?" Sherlock asked, then connected the dots. "She wants you to get out more."

John scuffed his trainer against the tarmac, feeling like a petulant teenager. "She says if I don't get either a boyfriend or a hobby by the time she sees me again, she's dragging me swimming with her girlfriends at their pool. Which would be..."

"Humiliating?" Sherlock offered, and John shuddered.

"Ah, yes. Well."

To his surprise, Sherlock looked nearly sympathetic. "Can't you tell her you solve crimes for a hobby? I suppose telling her you shoot killer Thames cabbies is out of the question."

"Entirely," John said, snorting a laugh, and Sherlock gave a deep chuckle. "I don't suppose you've got any experiments that could use a doctor?" he asked hopefully. Sherlock opened her mouth, and he held up a hand before she could speak. "Never mind, I just realized what sort of experiments those would be." He looked down at the pavement again, muffling a giggle before quieting. "I'll find something."

Sherlock looked at him keenly, but said nothing.

* * *

**The Distiller's is a real place! (I do try to make some of this authentic. Key word, some.) If you want to put together a team and try the fun out for yourself, the info's on my profile. **

**(PS. Anyone who wants to take Photoshop and the pub's picture gallery and photoshop John, Mike, or Molly into some of it, feel free! Sherlock, obviously, is a bit harder, because I doubt any two readers have cast Sherlock the same. Personally I'm kinda picturing Rachel Weisz with rampant curls. But to each their own. For a while, it was Tilda Swinton's cheekbones and a vague amount of curls with no real face in my brain, so. You can't possibly have a worse idea of Sherlock than that.)**


	3. Cooking Up A Mess

**It seems last week FanFiction deleted the link to Distiller's; it's now on my profile. Sorry!**

**Without further ado:**

* * *

In the morning, John stole some of Sherlock's 'baking' ingredients and decided to try making a cake. If he had Harry over for cake, that would definitely get her off his case. Right? Right.

The recipe online promised to be fail-safe. John felt this was a step in the right direction. He started with the first step - gathering the ingredients. He didn't have self-rising flour - surely normal flour would do? And he had granulated sugar - the difference between it and caster sugar couldn't be that big. Sugar was sugar, flour was flour.

Well. Right. John rubbed his hands on his pants and looked at the directions. "Weigh your three eggs with their shells. Take that weight and measure the same amount each for the sugar, margarine and flour. Weigh the flour last. (For example, if the eggs weigh 200g, then the flour should weigh 200g, the sugar 200g, and the same for the margarine.)"

John raised an eyebrow at the old scale he'd found in the back of a cupboard. It was probably fine. Right?

After a bit of fiddling he had the thing calibrated and was measuring his eggs. 171 grams. Brilliant. So. Sugar.

A moment later he had his sugar, margarine and flour in their separate bowls in front of him. Next step.

"For the flour, remove 55g -" _Well then, what was the point of measuring it, then?_ John grumbled to himself - "from the weight you measured to match the weight of the eggs. Add 55g of cocoa powder. Combine the flour and cocoa."

John could do that. Basically he had to take out 55g of flour and then fill it back up to 171g total, with cocoa. Except he didn't have any cocoa.

"Sherlock," he said, poking his head through the door into her bedroom - it was open, he figured it was fair game. She wasn't there. He looked round, but it seemed she had shut herself in her kitchen again, which meant he was probably going to get yelled at if he opened the door, because she was trying to keep the area "controlled". Shit. Maybe Mrs. Hudson?

Mrs. Hudson was more than willing to help when he went downstairs and asked. "Oh, yes, dear!" she fluttered. "Here you are, it's no problem. What are you making?"

He told her, and she nodded. "I didn't think you had any baking supplies, though, dear."

"I don't," John admitted. "I'm nicking some off Sherlock's latest experiment. Did she tell you about it?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. John chuckled. "Well, she'll probably bombard you with bread and pastry recipes when she's done, so I'll let her brag about it."

"Do you need anything else, then?"

John scrunched his nose. "I don't suppose you know the difference between normal flour and the self-rising stuff?"

Mrs. Hudson proved to be very informative on this topic, and soon John was heading upstairs with a canister full of self-rising flour as well as the cocoa, due to Mrs. Hudson assuring him the cake simply would not turn out if he used the regular flour. It turned out baking was much more complicated than he'd expected.

"Right," he said as he stomped into the kitchen. For all the fail-safe claims of the recipe, he apparently had very nearly mucked it up, and he was only on the - third? fourth? - step of the process. "Let's do this again."

He measured out the flour again, removing the 55g and putting the cocoa in. He stirred the two together with a spoon, trying not to let it puff out the bowl, and failing, and noting the brown powder settling into his jumper with exasperation. Right. Next step.

"Preheat the oven to 170 C/Gas 3. Grease two 23cm sandwich tins and line with baking parchment."

John didn't have any sandwich tins and he didn't know what baking parchment was. Back down to Mrs. Hudson, then.

She gave him some tins to borrow and some baking parchment, explaining how to line them, and John trudged back up the stairs, cutting the baking parchment and layering the tins with difficulty before setting his oven. Okay. This was going well, for not knowing anything about what he was doing. He had this under control.

John remembered the first time he'd had to do a chemistry lab, and hadn't known what half the things were called. By the end of the semester, though, he'd understood all the different parts of a syringe and what a bunsen burner did. It just took practice.

"Put all the margarine and sugar into a large mixing bowl. Cream together with an electric mixer until pale, creamy and fluffy."

John didn't have an electric mixer. He was starting to sense a theme to his baking problems. However, he did have a fork and the strength left over from army pushups. He began to mix the butter and sugar. It took him a while before he could get all the chunks out of the butter, but he managed it and eventually it started to reach a strange fluffiness. He figured that would work. Manly baking meant using his biceps.

"Crack ONE egg into a small bowl (in case something is wrong with the egg)-" _What could be wrong with an egg? It's an egg_, John thought - "then add it to the margarine/sugar mixture. It is important that you do not over whisk at this point, just use the mixture on the lowest setting until the egg has become a part of the mixture. Repeat this process with the second egg and, after that, the third egg."

Seemed simple enough; John's arm was a bit sore, and gently mixing in the eggs was nice. Good.

"Sieve a couple of tablespoons of flour-cocoa mixture at a time into the mixing bowl with the other ingredients. Keeping the electric mixer turned off, give the mixture a quick stir (this will help prevent any of the flour flying out when you turn the mixer on!). Turn the mixer on now and mix everything together very well. Try to get air into the mixture as well as this will make the sponge lighter."

John translated this into no-mixer instructions - put the flour stuff in a bit at a time, and stir it all together at the end. Brilliant. He didn't know what 'sieve' was - hopefully it wasn't important. It probably was, but he wasn't going back down to Mrs. Hudson again.

"Divide the mixture evenly between the two tins. Bake in the preheated oven for 20 minutes. To make sure it has finished baking, use your fingers to very lightly press on the top of the sponge. It should feel spongey and spring back up."

Right, good. John finished the last step and shoved the tins in the oven, putting an alarm on his phone so he'd remember to take it out. He made a cuppa, then wandered into Sherlock's kitchen, which was now 'ventilating'.

"Hi," he said, leaning against the wall and smirking slightly. "How's your experiment going?"

"Well enough," Sherlock replied, looking over a book - was that a Betty Crocker _cookbook_? "How's yours?"

"Doing well," John said, feeling absurdly proud of himself. "Was able to figure it out."

"Good," Sherlock said. "I wondered how you would do without the sugar."

"What?" John asked, confused. Sherlock looked at him.

"I needed your sugar. I left you my salt. There was a note."

John's eyes widened and he darted back to his kitchen, licking his finger and catching a few of the crystals that remained in the bowl he'd used for the sugar.

Salt. Shit.

There was a piece of paper on the floor. John clenched his fists, then unclenched them, then bent down to pick up the paper.

_I need the sugar, I'm out and it's mine anyway. Here's some salt if you need it._

"Buggering bloody shit," John said angrily, tearing up the paper and turning off the oven.

* * *

**Should you wish to attempt to make John's chocolate sponge cake - preferably with sugar instead of salt - the recipe is linked on my profile! **

**Reviews always make me smile, too, so if you try it you should tell me how it tastes. :D**


	4. Reading

**HELLO ALL**

**So yesterday was my 2nd anniversary of being married to my wonderful husband, and seeing as I've made a point of celebrating things by giving you all extra stuff to read, and it's my 2nd anniversary after all, I'm going to give you TWO chapters! **

**For those who are wondering; yes, there is a case coming, yes, this bit is pertinent (to an extent. I mean, I really can't give up on the opportunity to have Sherlock messing with John's attempts to be normal). It's coming. I promise. In the meantime, enjoy!**

* * *

John was beginning to think he'd end up in his swim shorts at Harry's pool when Sherlock stomped into his room the next morning.

"We're going to the bookstore," she said. Her hair was everywhere and she looked slightly manic, and she smelled like yeast. "I need more data."

"Right," John said after a moment. "I'll just put my shoes, on, then. You might, ah, want to get -" he mimed brushing his hair, and Sherlock huffed and swept out of the room.

When she came back, he was pulling on his jacket and her hair was pulled back. "We're taking a taxi," she said in a tone that told him she wouldn't let him argue, and John sighed.

"Fine," he agreed, grabbing his keys, and they headed down the stairs.

The bookstore on Cheapside wasn't large, but the selection wasn't bad, and John found himself browsing as Sherlock berated the poor clerk for not having a larger range of cookbooks to choose from. John picked up a book that looked interesting - Agatha Christie was pretty well-liked, wasn't she? - and then he pulled Sherlock away from the poor clerk, who was red in the face and stuttering.

"We'll look it up online, Sherlock, and order you some books about nothing but baking. Or you could ask one of your contacts if he knows any bakers, they ought to know plenty." No poor retail associate deserved Sherlock on a quest for 'relevant data'.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "I believe Angelo knows of someone," she said, and turned away from the counter. "Come _on_, John," she ordered briskly and John rolled his eyes at the clerk.

"Sorry about that," he said, and put his book on the counter. "I'd like this one, please." The clerk nodded with a relieved half-smile.

A moment later, he joined Sherlock, who was tapping her foot next to a cab. "Yes, yes, I know, I took too long," he said, and climbed in. Sherlock made a face and got in next to him, pulling her coat round to fit her snugly.

"What took you so long? Agatha Christie?" she asked, getting a peek at the novel John held in his hands. "It's the fellow with a title."

John looked at her, then frowned, pursing his lips as he looked down at the book, then at her. "How do you know?"

"It's a well-known classic, John, of course I was made to read it in school." Sherlock's voice dripped with the disdain that was plastered all over her face, her nose crinkling at the thought. _Bloody posh public schools_.

"Well, you didn't have to tell me. Now I can't read it," John protested, tossing the book on the seat in between them. Sherlock brushed off the accusation.

"Of course you can, John, it'll hardly bother your silly little mind."

"Yes, it will, Sherlock, ta for that." John turned to look out the window, eyebrows furrowed, pursing his lips. One hobby. That's all he was asking for; Sherlock knew what was at stake if he didn't find one, and she was being seriously unhelpful. He did not need to be showing his legs to his sister's swimming group. It was a disservice to public sanity.

"Ah, Angelo's! He'll give you free garlic bread if you ask him, John. You're hungry," Sherlock said, jumping out of the car and leaving John to pay the cabbie, which he did, bemoaning the lack of notes in his wallet afterward.

Angelo was extremely willing to help, giving Sherlock his own recipies as well as giving her the names of several London bakeries that would let her in if she mentioned Angelo. "If for no other reason than they're scared of me," he belly-laughed, and John raised an eyebrow as Sherlock smirked. He did enjoy the garlic bread, though not enjoying the "anything for Sherlock's date," comment that accompanied it.

"Come on, John, places to go," Sherlock told him, and strode out the door. John sighed at the thought of her hailing yet another cab, then turned to Angelo.

"Thanks, mate, appreciate it," he said quickly, following Sherlock as the big man beamed after them.

"You keep an eye out for her, you hear?" Angelo shouted out the door, and John sighed, giving out an inward groan as Sherlock frowned, eyes thoughtful.

"Why does everyone assume you look out for me?" Her tone was petulant.

"I've no idea," John said honestly, shrugging under his coat. "Last I checked, you were saving my date's life, not the other way round."

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, you owe me for that, you know."

"I do not!" John protested as Sherlock raised a hand to hail a cab, which slowed for them. "I got the cabbie, remember. If anything, we're even."

Sherlock looked at him, then pursed her lips. "I wasn't going to die from the bloody pill, John."

"Yes, you were; have you never seen _The Princess Bride_? Besides, I paid for the last taxi, I am paid up."

"Fine, fine, we're even." Sherlock sighed and got in the cab. John groaned and stuck his head in the taxi.

"I'm not paying for you to drag us all over London," he warned her, and she rolled her eyes.

"I'm paying, so get in."

John did.

* * *

**If you'd ever like a peek at the Daunts John and Sherlock frequent, try the Cheapside location! The url's on my profile. **

**Spoilers: The book Sherlock spoils is The Secret Adversary, which is one of Agatha Christie's most popular novels.**


	5. Knitting

**I don't know what to put here seeing as I just did an author's note in the last chapter and I'm posting these on the same day...**

**REVIEWS ARE MY LIFE FORCE. FEED ME.**

* * *

After being dragged around London by a baking-obsessed consulting detective, John found himself abruptly shut out when he got home by Sherlock locking herself back in her kitchen-turned-lab.

John sighed, turned to his chair, and picked up his laptop. Checked his emails. Nothing. He put the laptop on the coffee table and rubbed his eyes, then got up and took off his jacket properly, putting it on a hook and everything.

A small knock came from the door, and he frowned, then took the two steps and opened it, though he wasn't expecting anyone.

"Hello, dear! I just wondered how your cake had turned out, you know, and I had a minute. Also I was wondering when I could have my tins back?" Mrs. Hudson was smiling at him kindly, and it made John feel even worse about yesterday's failure than he had before.

"Oh. Ah, well," John stammered, "It ran into a little - trouble. I've got your tins, though. Come on in."

Mrs. Hudson stepped in and followed him into the kitchen, the corners of her mouth twitching down as she asked, "What happened to it, dear? I thought you were doing so well."

"I did, too," John admitted, handing her the pans and realizing that the kitchen was a mess. At least he'd washed the tins. "Thank you, by the way, for those."

Mrs. Hudson just stood there, waiting for an explanation. John sighed.

"Well, ah. It seems while I was downstairs talking to you, Sherlock decided she needed her sugar back and replaced mine with salt. So it, ah. Well."

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, her face kind and understanding. "I'm so sorry, dear. Were you able to replace it?"

"Replace it?" John asked, frowning.

"Well, I figured you needed the cake, for a get-together of some kind," Mrs. Hudson prompted, and John shook his head.

"Oh, no. I just -" John stopped, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment. "It's my sister. She says I have to get a hobby by the next time I see her. I'm having a bit of trouble with it, actually."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Oh, I know. It's hard to find things you just enjoy doing. I knit, you know."

John raised his eyebrows. One of his friends in Afghanistan had knitted; she always had a pair of needles and a skein of yarn stashed in her kit somewhere. She would joke about the needles being handy weapons if it came down to it. Luckily it never did. John always saw her packing her little woolen articles off home around Christmas.

"Is it hard?" he asked, and Mrs. Hudson flushed happily at his interest.

"At the beginning, dear. But after a bit you catch onto it, and now I can do it almost without thinking while I watch telly." John could picture her, needles clacking as she watched Doctor Who.

John nodded and thrust his hands in his pockets. "I've got - well, my left hand isn't the steadiest," he said, and Mrs. Hudson understood, which was the wonderful thing about her.

"Oh that's no problem, dear, just so long as you can grip the needles. There's no rush to it, after all."

John looked down and scuffed his foot on the floor, then glanced back up at Mrs. Hudson with a rueful smile on his face. "I don't suppose you've got a pair of needles I can borrow, and some spare time? I'll - ah - need a tutor."

John hadn't realized Mrs. Hudson could smile so brightly. "Of course, dear! I'll be right back up."

"I'll make you a cuppa," John offered as she headed out.

"Thank you, dear!" he heard from the hall as he put the kettle on.

Mrs. Hudson was an incredibly patient teacher, but John didn't feel like a very patient student as he struggled with the needles and ball of wool that Mrs. Hudson brought up. By the end of the night, however, he had finally managed to knit a small square, and Mrs. Hudson had praised his work, and if he'd lost one stitch, well. She showed him how to fix it with a crochet hook, and he figured he'd learned something extra.

Or at least, that's what he told himself when she went downstairs to grab him a pattern she said "was the simplest thing, dear, you needn't worry about it being too difficult for you."

It was for a simple dishcloth, and the only thing that really made it a pattern was that it told you when to drop or add stitches, and Mrs. Hudson taught him how to read it, then left. John stared at the needles and took a deep breath, and began.

A moment later he was pulling up his music on his computer for a distraction, because once Mrs. Hudson left it felt as though he hadn't learned a thing. Still, John was nothing if not persevering, and he was damned if a simple string and two sticks were going to show him up. It took him four times just to get started correctly, but he finally got a line of stitches that looked decent.

"John?" Sherlock asked later, sticking her head through the door. John looked up and blinked; he hadn't realized how dark it had gotten, he'd been so focussed on the yarn in his hands. Sherlock stopped whatever she'd been about to say to stare at him. "Are you _knitting_?"

"Mrs. Hudson taught me the basic stitch," John said, and was suddenly absurdly proud of his progress, in a way even he knew was goofy. "I'm making a dishcloth," he offered, holding up his work on the needles.

"Oh," Sherlock said, and blinked at him, then grinned. "Can I borrow your tea cosy?"

John nodded, then looked at his computer, realizing his music had turned off without his noticing. He touched the trackpad to see the time, and blinked a few times at the light before making it out. Half two in the morning. He groaned. "I'm going to bed," he announced to Sherlock, who was now in his kitchen rummaging through drawers.

"Fine," she said in return, and John surveyed his work, wondering how one stopped without forgetting where they were; luckily he was at the end of a row, so he settled for just sticking the ball of wool on the tips of the needles to keep his work from sliding off and setting it carefully on the coffee table before getting up and heading to the shower, yawning.

* * *

**Would you like to make John's washcloth/dishcloth? The pattern's on my profile.**


	6. Don't Close Your Eyes

**MERITRICIOUS! And a happy New Year!**

**Your present is an extra chapter, whoop!**

* * *

It was cold; too cold for the desert, John thought. Really, how it could go from bone-sucking hot in the day to bone-chilling cold at night, John didn't know. He pulled on his kit, double-checking the pockets for plasters and his antibiotic dressing before heaving it onto his shoulders. It was going to be a long night of walking if Major Barton was right, and John could think of no reason why he wouldn't be right - at least, no reasons he wanted to think of.

A moment later he was realizing what he'd forgotten to pack; baby powder. He was chafing. Sand was everywhere in the desert, but it was hell when it got in your pants. His thighs were going to be on fire tonight. And not in a good way.

When he'd been a new recruit, young and naive, he'd thought joining the army would be exciting. Instead, all he seemed to get were poor boys about to die and lots of monotonous walking.

There were the sparse times when he felt, really _felt_, though. When the world turned Technicolour-vibrant and adrenaline pumped through his veins and his Browning seemed an extension of his hand. Those were the days he lived for; the days that had made him re-enlist despite himself, because going back to 'civilian life' sounded even worse than the sand in his pants.

He hitched up his pack and adjusted his trousers, and kept walking. It helped, sometimes, to count his steps, and John started counting now.

Two hundred and thirty six, two hundred and thirty seven, two hundred and thirty eight, two hundred and thirty -

Michael, the new kid with sandy hair who was constantly chewing cheap bubblegum whenever he could find it, fell in front of him with a cry of pain, and John felt something wet spray across his leg. John looked down, noting the red on his trousers, feeling the wet and thinking, for a split second, that the moisture would help the rubbing, and then realizing what the red was and knowing that he'd never forgive himself for that split second.

The next second he was on his knees, turning Michael over and tearing open what was left of the boy's trousers, applying pressure, going through his textbooks in his brain, trying to remember. He could hear the shouting around him, the hum of tension, the adrenaline, the rush, the whiz of bullets, the smack of ammunition hitting sand at high speed. It was the chaos of a spinning ride at a carnival, only the laughter was replaced with screaming, and instead of brightly coloured lights, it was the red of blood.

"John!" Murray called, and John felt it, then; the sting in his leg where the bullet had nicked him after it hit Michael, and then, the searing red fire in his shoulder as something ripped through, pulling and tearing through muscle and bone.

A choked noise made it past his lips, and he made it a point to try to breathe, to gulp in air despite the way it made his shoulder feel.

Murray was rushing over, then, and he put a hand on John's shoulder, as if it wasn't injured, as if he couldn't see the blood leaching out onto the sand underneath them, staining the desert red. Instead he put his hand on the injured shoulder and said, "Sherlock's going to take the pill."

John knew true terror, then, because suddenly he was on a boat, on the Thames, and it was still cold, so cold, and he could feel himself dying, bleeding out, there, on a boat, on the bloody Thames, and Sherlock was about to take the bloody pill, and suddenly everything broke in his brain and all he could think was _Sod this_.

And he reached for his gun, and _damn me, damn my shoulder_, and he shot, feeling the grip of the Browning in his hand, praying this would work, praying he was steady, praying Sherlock wouldn't get hit, praying -

_Please, God, let her live_.

The kickback of the pistol went into his shoulder. He could feel it like he'd been shot again, in the hard bone of his chest, and then -

dark

close

smothering

heat

pain


	7. Waking Up

John jerked awake to find himself tangled in his bed-sheets, sweating and shivering at the same time. He let his head flop back onto the pillow, feeling a cramp in his bad leg and groaning as he stretched it out, trying to remember to breathe.

Once the pounding of his pulse began to slow and he could focus beyond the rhythm of his breathing, he could hear a low hum from the next room. Continuing, the hum began to solidify into a tune, and he realized it was Sherlock's cello, coming from the sitting room.

John took another moment to himself, trying to decide if he really wanted to face Sherlock at this point, but in the end the idea of seeing her alive and well overrode his embarrassment, and he got up, wincing as he let his leg straighten, trying not to remember the blood from Michael's wound staining his trousers.

He opened the door, not caring about his rumpled vest and mussed hair, and rolled his shoulder. Sherlock had her head rested on the back of the sofa, and was staring, unseeing, through the skylight as her bow moved across the strings. She didn't acknowledge his presence as he came to stand next to her, looking down at her face and the way her throat moved when she breathed, seeing the pulse and reminding himself that _it was just a dream_.

After a moment of stillness he let himself reach forward and brush a stray curl off her face, and she blinked as she focussed on him. "Hi," he murmured quietly. "Would you like a cuppa?"

He didn't want to explain, and she didn't ask, just nodding before looking back up through the skylight. John nodded firmly to himself once before walking into the kitchen, wishing he had put on his slippers as his feet touched the cold tile.

His hand didn't shake at all as he put the kettle on, which told him the tension was still humming through his veins like the notes that wandered from Sherlock's cello. He found himself humming along after a bit, realizing she must have altered one of his favorites so she could play it on the cello, because he'd played this earlier, while he was knitting.

Maria had been pretty, the kind of pretty that you saw in a poisonous flower or in the desert sunrises, the type of pretty that meant danger. Most of the time she was busy being one of the best shots in the company, wiping the sexist smirk off any new recruits. There was very little femininity about her; she'd gotten a crew cut like the boys when she'd joined the army, didn't do makeup or her nails, didn't wear baubles or think twice about getting up to her elbows in muck or blood, whichever was put in front of her.

Her stubbornness had made her stand out, because while she would hold herself to the standards of the men, if you called her one she would be in your face, insisting she was a woman and if you called her otherwise from then on she'd wipe the smile off your face with a punch. And yet it had made her one of the best soldiers John had known; she knew who she was and who she wanted to be, and it wasn't based in her looks or skills or the army or even her gender.

John had found himself sharing a tent with Maria at one point, after his had gotten ruined due to the unexpected explosion of a Hummer on yet another trip into the unending sand. She'd let him have some of her chocolate in return for a couple paracetamol tablets, joking until late at night even though he knew it was probably miserable for her to be camping while menstruating. Murray had asked him later how he'd survived without her hating him, and John had shrugged. "Be nice? Give her some privacy and act like a decent human being?" he'd suggested doubtfully, and Murray had snorted.

"Sure, mate. As if that's what works with women."

John didn't understand why it wouldn't work... but then, he preferred men anyway.

It was Maria who had knitted in the tent late at night, making little things to send home to family at Christmas.

Three weeks after Christmas John had found himself having to draft a very different sort of letter to her family.

John shook his head, trying to clear it as he realized the tea was done brewing. He pulled the teabags out with a spoon and tossed them in the trash, stirring in his milk and Sherlock's sugar, bringing one out in each hand and setting one in front of Sherlock before sitting in his chair across from the sofa, pulling his legs up in front of him and watching the bow move across the strings. Hell, even Sherlock had a hobby.

The thought of picking up his knitting made him slightly nauseous, and he rubbed his thumb over the handle of his mug, noting a nick in the glazing on the ceramic. He wondered when it had happened. Probably in the moving.

"Are you going back to your therapist?" Sherlock said, apropos of nothing.

John looked away from his mug to look at her grey eyes, which were now focussed on him in a way that he fancied could bore into his skull.

"I don't -" he shook his head. "Probably not. I - ah - well. It hasn't helped much, has it?"

Sherlock frowned, her focus unwavering. "True. What are you going to do, then?"

John shrugged. He had no good answer to that question, and he didn't really want to think about it now. Sherlock seemed to understand, pulling out a block of rosin and tending to her bow.

His therapist had been a tall dark woman named Ella, who had a no-nonsense attitude. John had liked her, as it went for liking when you were numb. She'd called him out when he was bullshitting, which was possibly the only thing that actually helped him. She'd wanted him to write a blog, as if writing would somehow make him feel again. Besides, he'd had nothing to write about. The blog was still there, a blank page on the internet.

Drawing the bow across the strings again, Sherlock managed to pull John away from his thoughts, and his eyes fell on his computer. His last entry for the blog had been simple; _Nothing ever happens to me_.

Things happened to him now, he thought ruefully, and pulled the laptop closer, lifting the lid with a click and pulling up a word document. The cursor flickered at him, and he took a moment to flex his fingers before looking down at the keyboard. He was an absurdly slow typist, but this could be doable.

And he painstakingly started to pick out the words, titling the page.

_A CASE STUDY_

* * *

**All I want for Christmas are reviews! (Pretty please?)**


	8. Case Begins

**AAAH DID YOU WATCH IT DID YOU WATCH IT AAAAAH *combusts***

**And in related news, have a happy new year!**

* * *

John woke up with the strange wakefulness of someone who can't remember when they fell asleep. The laptop had somehow migrated over to the coffee table, and his duvet had been tucked round him. He pulled it off of himself with a shudder at the cold air; he must really have been soundly asleep for him not to notice Sherlock tucking him in. He was glad he hadn't woken; he probably would have had her on the floor with a hand round her throat, which was not a nice way to treat people who were tucking you in.

Tea and toast was his first goal of the day, and he ruffled his already-rumpled hair as he stumbled into the kitchen. Once he'd spread the toast with a generous layer of marmalade and made the tea just right, he headed back out to his chair, enjoying the meal and getting his fingers quite sticky in the process. He considered going back into the kitchen for a napkin, but ended up just wiping his hands on his vest; it was going to need a washing anyway.

He pulled up his laptop as he sipped his tea, bringing up his blog and wondering how far he'd gotten in the draft before stopping. To his own surprise, he seemed to have finished it before falling asleep. He ran over it for spelling and grammar, fixing a couple of things before posting it. It turned out his sleepy self was a passable writer. At least Ella would be pleased before she realized he wasn't coming back in.

He was finishing his tea and checking his email when the door behind him flew open.

"Why the hell aren't you dressed?" Sherlock demanded when he looked up in confusion. "Lestrade's got a case for us, he should have called me in on it yesterday but he's an idiot. Come on!"

She darted out of the room and John got up, setting his laptop and tea on the coffee table and heading for his bedroom.

"Well, are you coming?" came Sherlock's voice from the next room, and he rolled his eyes, tossing his vest on the bed and telling himself it was totally okay to skip his shower just so long as he doubled on the antiperspirant.

"Yes, coming, just give me a minute!" he shouted back at her, and he heard her slam the door and thud down the stairs. He swore and changed quickly, darting down after her with his gun in the small of his back.

He'd never have to worry about what to write on his blog anymore.

* * *

"He's a banker," Lestrade said in the lift. "Wondering if this has something to do with that case you had with Dimmock."

Sherlock just gave him a sideways glance (the one that said "wrong") as they exited the lift, and Lestrade sighed and gave a gesture with his left hand. She turned as he directed and soon they were ushered into a bland-looking flat. Sergeant Donovan raised her eyebrows at John as he entered the room, and he lifted his chin, following Sherlock over to the body, neither one of them bothering to stop at the table with the annoying blue plastic pullovers this time.

"So you're following him about now? I don't need two civilians on my crime scene," Anderson said from the corner, coming forward angrily.

John shrugged, trying to look casual as he said calmly, "Not certain veteran status counts as a civilian, really."

Anderson made a face, not that his current one could get much worse. "If I find one ruddy blonde hair on the corpse -"

"I've already made certain the lab has a sample database of John's DNA and hair, Anderson, now do shut up and let me think," Sherlock interrupted, and Anderson got the look of a man biting into a lemon. John decided he didn't want to know how Sherlock had gotten her samples, and barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes before Sherlock looked up at him, nodding her head toward the corpse. "What do you see?"

John crouched next to the body, mirroring Sherlock's position on the other side, aware of a marked spill next to the body. "Well, cause of death is pretty obvious," he gestured to the knife wound gaping in the man's neck. "I'd say it was a thrust down - clean, severed the spinal cord and nicked the main artery - here, entered the core of the body - maybe the higher lobe of the right lung?" he mused as he looked the body over. "Man died almost instantly - it would have paralyzed him and cut off most of the blood to the brain due to that artery being sliced, not to mention fluid flooding the pierced lung -" He became aware that the whole room had gone strangely quiet, and he looked up to find that most of the room was staring at him. He blinked up at them, then raised an eyebrow.

"I've changed my mind," Donovan said after a moment, crossing her arms with a superior air. "You're her perfect match. Who'd have thought there were two freaks in the world?"

"He was an army doctor, Sally, he's hardly maladjusted," Sherlock retorted, and John did roll his eyes this time.

"It's fine, Sherlock. I've been called worse." Sherlock shot him a look and John shrugged. "Being bi in the army never did anyone any favours," he said quietly, so only she could hear. Sherlock's eyes widened for a moment, then they narrowed at him and she nodded quickly once before turning back to the body and standing up.

"This isn't related to Dimmock's case," she said, and Lestrade frowned at her.

"What makes you think that?" he asked, and John once more found himself appreciating the man. Lestrade may not have Sherlock's brains, but he was quick to catch on and willing to listen, and most of all he seemed to have the patience of a saint. John thought about what Mycroft had said and had to wonder about the strength of will it would take to get Sherlock Holmes off of drugs.

"Angle of the stabbing. He's not a small man, he's what - six foot three? Someone ethnically Asian, such as the assassin group we were looking at, would have had to be very abnormally tall for their ethnic group in order to stab from above. No, our killer is, if anything, strikingly tall."

Lestrade blinked twice and nodded once. "Right. What else have you got?"

"Why is there an abacus next to him?" Sherlock asked without giving any regard to Lestrade's question. Lestrade sighed.

"It was on his back when we found him; we moved it to get a good look at the wound."

Sherlock frowned at him, eyes narrowing. "You shouldn't move anything, Lestrade."

"Oy, this crime scene was found yesterday, you're lucky I've been able to put off moving the body for this long."

"Yes, well, you should have brought me in yesterday," she snapped back.

"Right. Any estimate on how long he's been dead?" John asked, figuring he'd better interrupt before Sherlock could start them arguing about inanities.

"As far as we can tell, she was killed about two and a half days ago, sometime in the afternoon."

"So specific, you have to love the competence of the police force," Sherlock muttered. Lestrade looked at her with an expression John normally saw on exasperated, indulgent fathers.

"Right, what have you got, then?" he tried again, and Sherlock rolled her eyes, stepping forward to let her keen eyes flicker over the corpse.

"Mid-twenties, not married - not divorced, either - right-handed. He's got two dogs and a cat, but neither are here so either the murderer let them loose or they live somewhere else, I'd say the latter because the place isn't covered in hair. He plays the guitar but he's not good at it, enjoys his job even though it's high pressure. And -" Sherlock held up a gloved hand holding a phone, prompting an angry cry from Anderson - "he's not cheating on his girlfriend, they have a healthy relationship. The pets probably live at the girlfriend's house."

"Are we looking for her, then?" Lestrade asked, and Sherlock shoved the phone in his face.

"Look at the height difference, Lestrade, I highly doubt that a girl a good foot shorter than him could stab him at that angle and do this amount of damage. Don't be dull." She turned back to the corpse, tossing the phone at Lestrade.

"So what are we looking for?"

Sherlock studied the scene. "Someone tall. Did anyone touch the abacus?"

"No, we didn't do anything but pick it up and set it to the side. Someone _tall_?" Lestrade said, half-businesslike, and half-frustrated.

"Yes, well, I haven't got much to go on yet, have I?" Sherlock snapped, and John stepped in again.

"Any fingerprints, unclaimed hairs, fibres, anything?" he asked, and Lestrade shook his head.

"Whoever's done this one managed to clean it up pretty well." He seemed torn between sounding impressed and frustrated.

"Let me know of any developments. Do you have a copy of the file?" Sherlock said quickly, turning with a whirl of her coat. John had a split second of wishing he were tall and dramatic before realizing how much it would not suit him.

Lestrade sighed and motioned to Sally, who very reluctantly handed over a manila file. Sherlock left without a word, but Sally smirked as John passed. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

John stopped and fixed her with a glare. "I believe Sherlock can say the same about her warnings of you."

She couldn't - Sherlock had hardly warned him of Sally's inanity - but John didn't really care at the moment. He wondered what that said about him. Whatever it was, it was probably disturbing, and he found he didn't care much. He nodded once to himself before straightening his shoulders and following Sherlock out of the room.

"Right," he said in the taxi with a grin, "Explain it to me, please."

Sherlock looked at him and quirked an eyebrow. "Explain what?"

John nodded back toward the crime scene, which was hard to do since the cab was now moving. "My brain doesn't work like yours, but I'd like to know how you knew all that."

Sherlock frowned at him for a moment, then turned toward the window, opening her mouth to let a stream of deductions out.

"Mid-twenties was obvious, and he was unmarried - no ring, and no signs of a callus or tan line, and he's young enough that if he'd been married there would have been a sign of the ring. He had two colours of coarse hair and one colour of soft hair on his trousers, so two dogs and a cat. Plays the guitar - there was a case for one in the corner."

John looked over at her quickly. "I didn't notice it."

Sherlock's mouth turned up at the edges. "You weren't looking for it."

"And you were?"

"There were calluses on the tips of his fingers, of course I looked for an instrument. He enjoys his job - there are several magazines on the table related to banking and the stock exchange, and he doesn't have to read them, so he's kept his interest in the job - but he chews his fingernails, thus it's a high-stress environment. And he doesn't cheat - his Facebook pictures show a happy couple and his emails, texts and outgoing calls collaborate this."

"Brilliant," John said when she paused, and Sherlock gave him a look, her eyebrows high on her forehead as if she were surprised. John didn't understand why she would be surprised - he seemed to encourage her ego often these days.

"Boring," she said after a moment. "He's boring, John. There's no reason for anyone to want to kill him - he's banally average." Her face was disgusted. Only Sherlock could be disgusted at someone being _normal_.

John shrugged. "Everyone's got a bad side, right?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock mused, "But I would see it."

"Maybe it's in that file," John suggested, and she frowned.

"Maybe," Sherlock said, fiddling with her phone. "I need you to look up everything you can about the abacus."

John looked out the window, automatically scanning the tops of the buildings as he mused. "What's the plural for that? Abacuses? Abaci?"

"Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock snapped at him, and he grinned.


	9. Abacuses or Abaci

**Hello friends! Have a chapter and remember I absolutely love responses! **

Sighing, John pushed his laptop across the coffee table toward Sherlock. "Sherlock, if I have to read one more thing on abacuses, I'm going to need my gun. In order to shoot my head." He let his arm sprawl across the wood, wanting to flop onto the table, but not wanting to look like an idiot.

Sherlock turned to him with a frown. "I shall endeavour to make certain you do not come within arm's reach of the weapon." She went back into her thinking pose, staring at the wall.

John's forehead creased. "How do you know where my gun is?" he asked, calmly, one hand clenching on the arm of his chair, controlled.

"Oh, please, John, I'm hardly going to shoot someone with it," Sherlock replied.

"All the same, how did you know?" John repeated, but relaxed a bit.

"You have trouble sleeping, of course you keep it close, but you wouldn't keep it under your pillow, too cliche, not to mention dangerous since you flail in your nightmares, thus it's most likely in the drawer of your side table," Sherlock said quickly. John gaped at her.

"That's brilliant."

Rolling her eyes, Sherlock looked up at the pinned-up web she'd made on John's wall. John hoped Mrs. Hudson wouldn't ask them to replace the drywall when they left. Knowing the way the Holmes family worked, Mycroft would probably pay for it anyway, but still.

"Are you ever going to move back into your own sitting room?" John asked when she didn't answer.

"No," was the clipped reply.

"Is that why you burned your sofa?" he joked, but she stayed silent.

Sherlock stepped forward, pretending to trace an invisible line between two pins, but John could see what was written on the placards and connecting them wouldn't make any sense - not even to Sherlock. There was simply no way the banker's shoes and abacuses had a connection.

"You did, didn't you?" he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head at the insanity of his life. "You set your sofa on fire 'cause you liked my side of the flat better. You know, you could have just asked me to switch sides with you."

"Dull," Sherlock said, and John grinned, letting go of his nose.

"Right, because it's much more interesting researching abacuses," he accused.

"It's abaci," she replied.

"Actually, it's both, according to my research. And as far as I can tell, there's nothing connecting abacuses to murders. Any luck on your end?" John leaned back, waiting for a stream of deductions.

"I've looked up any connection his particular bank could have to a crime syndicate or any money-related wrongdoing, but any potential avenues for connection are so far up in the system that there's no way they'd be useful for this particular murder. So it comes down to the only thing the murderer's left us; the abacus. I thought that perhaps the killer was leaving a message - _abaci_ - traditionally _abaci_ represent wealth - but that wouldn't make sense, everyone knows he's a banker, it would be a useless message. There's no code in the positioning of the beads either, I've tried every possible combination of letters and numbers and symbols and shapes as well as lowering my pride and sending a picture to Mycroft, who has emailed me back with these exact words: 'There's nothing there, Sherlock, why are you wasting my time', which means he had a crack at it himself and found it wanting, so that backs me up." She frowned at her phone on the coffee table as if had personally insulted her.

"Mycroft's good at cryptology?" John asked, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"There's a 40-year-old unsolved murder in Australia that hangs on a couple lines of code. Or, at least, they think it's unsolved," was all she said, and John understood the implications.

"Right, right, Mycroft's good at everything. Does he ever get less creepy?" John asked with a shiver. He didn't want to know what Mycroft's reasons were for refraining from exposing what he knew. Hell, he didn't want to know Mycroft's reasons for _anything_, half the time.

"Of course not, John, he's my brother," Sherlock said dismissively. "So, abacus aside, I've looked through the file three times. Lestrade, unfortunately, was right; Anderson's incompetence has entirely bungled this case, the forensic report shows that there is absolutely no fingerprints, no odd fibres, no hair that cannot be accounted to dogs, cat and victim. Which is impossible according to the laws of forensic science themselves; a person always leaves a trace, that's the whole _point_ of the science, but Anderson is an inexcusable waste of grey matter."

"So we know nothing about him? The murderer, I mean," John clarified, choosing to skip over the ranting-about-Anderson bit.

Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, then clambered over the couch and crouched on it, her hands held in front of her face. "Oh, I wouldn't say that, John. We know some. We know he's tall, believes in what he does, _isn't_ stupid, and is confident. He probably is quite popular among the ladies. Does well chatting them up in bars."

"Hey, hey, hey. You keep saying 'he'. Why is there no equal gender representation in our suspect pool?" John protested, and Sherlock grinned at him.

"Height, John, do keep up. Not to mention statistical evidence suggests our suspect is more likely to be a man." John stared at her for a moment.

"Right," John said, then stood up, hands at his sides. "I suppose height variation doesn't occur to you? Because I'm kind of living proof. Tea?"

"No. Sit. Look up any other symbolic attatchments to _abaci_," Sherlock ordered quickly, ignoring his point and pushing his laptop back toward him. John raised his eyebrow and gave her a look, then sighed.

"_Abacuses_," he said, but he pulled his laptop back and sat down, flicking the top open with a finger.


	10. PTSD is Made of Shit and Bullets

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**The whole of series 3**

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Sherlock left John in the middle of an article on Egyptian abacuses, claiming she needed to "get evidence from the morgue" aka "harrass Molly to see the body". Poor Molly was probably going to have a thirty-minute lecture on Anderson's ineptitude. John ignored her in favour of trying to figure out what the hell he was reading.

He was halfway through the third page of his article - something about Egyptian abacuses being made of sand and stones and not being actual beaded abacuses at all - when something hit the wall behind him. John reacted on instinct, launching himself out of his chair, mindless of the laptop hitting the ground, and springing on the noisemaker. They both ended up crashing to the ground and grappling for a moment before John had his hand round the intruder's neck, carefully managing not to crush the windpipe but easily able to restrict the oxygen supply if necessary. The paradox of the doctor-soldier.

Detective Inspector Lestrade looked baffled underneath him, and John gulped. "Shit," he said in a whisper, pulling himself off the Inspector and curling up in a ball against the wall. "Sorry."

Lestrade gaped at him, opening and closing his mouth several times, allowing himself to take some deep breaths while he was at it. He had finally seemed to catch his breath and was about to say something - John was just grateful the policeman wasn't arresting him - when they were both interrupted by a high, shrieking voice.

"JOHN HAMISH WATSON!"

John groaned, putting his head in his hands. His arms were starting to shake, though his left hand was traitorously steady. Shit. Harry.

"You said you were all right! You said you were doing well! And instead you're falling apart! You didn't tell me anything, did you? You just figured let's leave Harry out of this, she's the one with issues, well, that's a bunch of BULLSHIT! You are going through some hell of a trauma and you just figure you can deal with this on your own? John Watson, you are coming home with me and I am going to get you some serious help, so help me god, because this is not okay, you are being too brave for your own good, and you haven't got any friends? This is -"

"I'm fine," Lestrade said, interrupting, bless him. John closed his eyes, rubbing them with the heel of his palms, wondering why he felt so out of focus. "I'm fine, it was my fault anyway, I should have knocked first. Any decent man would defend themselves if someone burst into their flat." God, John was going to owe the man so much after this. He was being nice after being practically assaulted. John realized Sherlock had probably done worse to the man, but still.

"It is _not_ normal for people to go strangling people!" Harry shrieked, and John could _feel_ his brain retract from the noise, putting his hands over his ears as protection as he tried to find a way to explain, even though, technically, she was right.

"I'm just low on sleep, Harry, that's all, I'm just -"

"Just nothing! You are getting some care, this isn't healthy, you need friends, I'm going to get you a psychic, or a psych-whatever-they-are that help with this army stuff, or a dream reader, or a bloody voodoo doctor because that would be far better than you sitting all crumpled and god, this is that post-traumatic-stress-whatzit, isn't it-"

"Ms. Watson, congratulations, you've managed to succesfully terrify a man who's previously been _shot_, would you please give my flatmate room to breathe?" a calm voice interrupted, and John almost took his hands off his ears, it was such a relief, and his mind latched onto the sound, the one speck of solid confidence in a room of chaos.

"How do you know who I am? Who are you to be in John's flat anyway? If you're his girlfriend, you aren't doing your bloody job taking care of him, I'm his ruddy sister, I have the right - did you say flatmate? You're the flatmate? John, who is-"

John winced, bracing himself for the torrent of deductions he knew would be heading Harry's way, and the resulting explosion. His eyes met with Lestrade's for a brief second, and he could see the same tension there as well.

But instead Lestrade left his view as Sherlock's face appeared in front of him.

"John, you need to breathe," she said calmly as Harry nattered on in the background. "In, come on."

John hadn't realized he was holding his breath. No wonder he'd felt out of it. He took a long breath in through his nose, like in combat training. Sherlock wasn't deducing his sister, this was good, this was workable, right.

"Right, good. Out again," Sherlock coached him, not touching him or moving closer than she was, kneeling about a foot away. To anyone who didn't know Sherlock, it might have looked uncaring, but John was relieved - he needed the space. "And, in," Sherlock ordered, and he found himself obeying, his mind clearing slowly as he fought to make his lungs remember their function. "You can take your hands off your ears, she's running out of things to say, now," she commented, and John found himself smiling as he obeyed.

"...and... and..." Harry faltered, and John realized that she'd kept talking, and he hadn't really understood a thing, he'd been so focused on Sherlock focusing on him, bringing him back to clarity.

"It was my fault, Sherlock, I didn't knock. Forgot you were sharing a flat now," Lestrade explained quietly, and Sherlock nodded. John braced his arms behind him, about to get up, but Sherlock reached out and put one finger on his shoulder, and he stopped.

"No. Sit. Stay," she ordered, almost as if he were some cocker spaniel. John would have taken offense, but then she brought him a cushion from the couch and said, "Sit on that," before disappearing into the kitchen, with another nod for the Detective Inspector. Lestrade seemed to take that as an order to look over at John, who smiled at him tenatively, suddenly feeling very tired. Lestrade got up after a moment, setting a hand on Harry's shoulder and gently steering her toward the door.

"I think we'd best leave John to get a bit of rest," he murmured to Harry as they were leaving, and John suddenly felt half of the tension in his back leave as they did, abruptly sagging back against the wall.

Sherlock came out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea, and John raised an eyebrow as she sat across from him, handing him one. "Is this safe for consumption?" he asked dryly, trying to ignore the slight unsteadyness in his voice.

Rolling her eyes, Sherlock replied with a simple, "I'm British, John, I am aware of how long is needed to steep your comfort drink."

"Right," John said after a moment, and took a sip. Not too sweet, not too bitter, not understeeped, and the warmth flowed out of the mug and into his fingers, the steam rising into his breath and loosening the tightness in his core. "Thanks," he said, and it was an understatement, and meant more than the tea.

"Need to talk?" Sherlock asked - and it was asking, not one of the orders like the one to breathe or sit still. John shook his head; what would he say? _Sorry, I guess I just overreact when someone startles me, it comes from being woken by bullets and screaming_. Yes, that sounded entirely sane, he totally wouldn't get kicked out of his flat.

Sherlock nodded in response, taking a sip of her own tea. "I'm surprised at the odds."

John frowned into his mug, watching the steam flow off the liquid. "Odds of what?"_ You getting stuck with a maniac?_

"Me, getting a flatmate like you. I mean, most people would be dead after two minutes with me, and I end up with the fellow who can wrestle a man onto the floor within five seconds. It's rather -" Sherlock made a face - "insultingly perfect. Are you certain Mycroft didn't manipulate you here?"

John let a corner of his mouth twitch up. Only Sherlock could find the upside to PTSD. "Knowing your brother," he admitted, "I've no idea. But if he did, it was without my knowledge or consent."

Sherlock's eyes studied him a minute. "That'll do, I guess. Come help me look over the autopsy photos," and then she was getting up and flopping onto her traditional place on the sofa, and John had to laugh and get up, and things were back to normal.

Well, their kind of normal. The kind that had autopsies.


End file.
